


You Can Get Odds Forever

by Catchclaw



Series: Stray No More [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Angst, Knotting, M/M, Misha's Wisdom/BS, Mpreg is possible in this world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen tells himself that he did the right thing, the righteous thing: he gave Jay what he needed when, and then gave him up, gave him back, to Gen. So why does he feel like shit? And why won't Misha just leave him the fuck alone about it already?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Get Odds Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "My Time of Day."

You don't talk to him for a week. Even on set. Unless they're the words written for you.

When he came in that Tuesday, a couple of days after you dropped him off, after you willed the taste of him out of your mouth as you honked the horn and drove away, his neck was covered in bruises in the shape of her mouth.

Not yours. Hers.

So you may not talk, but it's clear that she did right by him. Gave him what you couldn't. What you wouldn't let yourself.

Filled him up good and tight.

When it's late and you're alone, tangled in the sheets and sweating, you swear you can hear her whispering in his ear:

"Couldn't do this for you, could he? Couldn't take care of you like I can, could he, baby?"

And Jay beneath her panting: "Gen. Jen. Gen."

You don't sleep much, after that.

You tell yourself that you did the right thing, the righteous thing: you gave him what he needed when and you gave him up, gave him back, then.

Hell, you had the boy in your bed and you called him "baby" and he called you "beautiful" and you didn't tie him down, didn't give him what he needed, not really. What you want.

No.

No, because in the morning, you bundled him into his clothes even as he shivered, still needy, still wanting you. Then you packed him into your newly-tired truck and drove him home.

To his girlfriend.

To his _alpha_ girlfriend.

Because he wasn't yours to keep.

Though you've always been his.

You did the right thing, you tell yourself. You know. You pretend.

For five days, you wander around in a haze. Move through scenes and set-ups on automatic, like the consummate professional you are. That you thought you'd forgotten how to be.

And if Jay notices, he doesn't say.

Even when he ducks his head under yours on set, right in the middle of a Sam-and-Dean fight. It's not on purpose. He's just following the script. But you get this whiff of funnel cakes and powdered sugar, and you breathe a little too deep, close your eyes a little too long until the director says: "Jensen? You need a minute?"

No. Of course you don't.

Misha's the only one who notices, of course. Or the only one brave enough to speak up.

He shows up at your house that Sunday night, uninvited, and feeds you beers on the back porch until you crack. 

He leans his head against the railing and watches your face while you talk. Lights your cigarettes without giving you shit. Steals a puff from each one before he slips it between your fingers. 

Misha's the only person you know who gets more sober the more he drinks, and by the time you've run out of words, he's the freaking Pope.

"Jen," he says finally, breathing in your smoke. "You're the only person I know who sees self-repression as a virtue."

You blink. Feel the filter go hot inside your hand.

"It's impulse, not imperative," you say, you repeat, the fucking motto of your life--and for a second, he's Jay, and you're back in that worn-out motel room, an enigma of an alpha wrapped inside a goddamn cliche, and for a second, you ache.

But Misha shakes his head and laughs.

"Just because it's an impulse doesn't make it bad," he snorts. "God."

"No," you say, feeling your hackles rise. "But you don't have to be a slave to that shit, man. I thought you of all people would get that."

That earns you an eyebrow. Then he steals your cig. 

"There's a difference between being a slave to something and cutting yourself off from experience," he intones, in that way that says _wisdom_ , in that way that says _this is bullshit_. "You can't stop being an alpha. You can't bleed that shit out of your pores. It's in you. It is you. You've just gotta accept that and do something constructive, rather than burning yourself out at the source."

Now you know it's bullshit.

"I AM!" you bark. "I am being constructive, asshole. You see me following my damn knot around? Making choices based on what my body wants rather than what might actually be good for me? Fuck, Mish. I'm the goddamn Bob the Builder of alphas!"

He smirks. "Really? I must have missed that one. I don't remember Bob fucking his best friend who he's been in love with for years and then acting like a goddamn martyr about it." 

Your mouth falls open and flaps. How many beers have you had, again?

Misha jumps up and dances down the stairs. "Jesus, Jen!" he shouts, turning circles in the yard. "And that whole time you were with him, you didn't think to mention that you love him? That he freaking makes you crazy? That if I let you, you'd sit at home every night and write him bad teenage poetry? Odes to his arms and haikus about his throat?"

You blanch. Rock back and reach for the railing. Make ready to flee.

But then he's in your face like a spring, his voice louder as a whisper right inside your ear. "How the hell could you let him go, when every cell in your damn body was telling you not to, was telling you to keep him close, to fulfill the goddamn biological imperative and fuck him right, fuck him full, put your mark on him and let everybody know that he's yours, that you're his?"

Your hands are on your face, wet.

"Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up, Misha!"

He sighs.

Knocks over a few empty bottles and perches on the stair beside you.

Leans into your shoulder. Takes some of the weight off yours.

"It was just sex," you manage after a while. "Had to be. I mean, that's what I can't--yeah, I love him or whatever, but we fucked, and that's--I was just there, ok? It had nothing to do with me. It was just some biology bullshit. He's got Gen, Mish, and I can't--" You look up. Helpless. 

"Hmmm," he says. Sage. "But. What if he wants you, too? I mean, God knows I hate all this biological imperative bullshit when it becomes just an excuse for people to treat each other like crap--but that doesn't mean it's all bad. Maybe there is some chemical thing, sure, but it's more than that, for you. Who's to say it's not like that for him, too?"

He blinks at you, the shadows falling over his eyes.

"Who's to say that some obstinate assholes like us can't make something good out of all this shit, if we choose to."

You snort. Make grabby hands at the cigs he's crushing and steal his lighter.

"Glad you're not selling yourself short, dude."

He tilts his head. A little Cas in your backyard, just then.

"Hey, it's not just me. I'm a follower, man, in Vicki's merry band. And that's cool with me." He gives you teeth. "And if I get to stick it to the dominant discourse in the process, then that's golden. Bonus points with the universe, and all that."

He's drifting, like he always does when he's had too much to drink. High on his own insight. Thank God he left his phone in the car.

"So," you say. "I should steal Jay away from his girlfriend, is what you're saying. I should break up their--relationship because I feel something for the kid."

"Right," Misha says, his voice dripping. "Because Jay doesn't have any say in this, huh? You two alphas are just gonna Hulk the fuck out and settle it between you? Sure. And how are you resisting the alpha/omega paradigm again, Jen? Oh, wait! You're not. You're just hiding behind it."

You scowl. But yeah: you've got nothing.

You hate it when the bastard's right.

You feel his arm snake around you. Let yourself be pulled into his chest.

Let him carry you for a minute or two.

"Talk to him," he rumbles in your ear. "And look at it this way: you can't fuck it up any worse than you already have."

He smells like tobacco and rosemary. 

"You're an asshole," you breathe into his shirt. 

"Yeah," he sighs. "But an asshole who's right."

He leaves you on the couch. Pulls your boots off and a blanket over.

His lips quick on your forehead. The snick of the lock in the door.

**

You dream about Jay.

Because. Of course you do.

In your dream, he's laughing.

Stretched out beside you, his skin knocking into yours, and the bastard is laughing.

"What's so fucking funny?" you growl. Push yourself up your elbows and loom over him until your shadows take over his face.

"You!" he gasps. Reaching. "You, Jen. You just don't get it."

You knock his hands away and fall down, cover him in you.

Curl into him. Spread yourself so thin that when he touches you, his hands sink right down to the core. To what's most basic in you.

Alpha.

You kiss him, furious, because that's not his to touch. Barge past his lips and slam into his tongue. He's getting slick under your hips, from the weight of your cock over his, and he smells--

Christ. Like Omega.

He groans, pitches up into you. Tries to shove your body down.

There's a sound like something tearing. You twist, and because it's a dream, he's suddenly above you, this great beautiful thing that's grounded on your cock, that's holding you as tight as he can, tugging your knot from your body and making it his.

He throws his head back, that slick pouring out of his skin, little pinpricks of light across his chest, his throat, his arms. His palms skate over your stomach as he arcs away and whines, this high urgent sound that sings to the rhythm of his body as you fuck.

It's a dream. You know it's a dream, because you don't fight it. Don't fight your body. Don't fight him.

You dig your claws into his hips and hold him down, make him flush against your flesh and watch his face when you come, when get your knot all the way in and see him scream, a hot red shot up his chest and over his face that shoots up and out of his cock. He's beautiful and burning and yours. 

That's the word he screams in the dream, the one that wakes you up: _Yours_.

But not before your dream-self groans: "Couldn't do this for you, could she? Couldn't take care of you like I can, could she, baby?"

Not before you hear Jay above you panting: "Jen. Gen. Jen. Mine. You're _mine_."

You don't sleep much, after that.


End file.
